Vacant Minds
by Ink Spotz
Summary: John and Sherlock meet for the first time while they are both in a coma. Together, they must both find a way to heal through the power of their newly formed friendship and wake up from their comas, or risk passing away into death and becoming a vacant mind.


**Disclaimer: ****(Some situations are copied from the "Sherlock" series, though not quoted word for word. I am not the original creator and do not own any of their original work).**

* * *

Chapter 1

John felt himself get propelled backwards. He hit the dirt ground hard on his back, the air rushing from his lungs. His chest felt like it was on fire; the world around him muting. His head felt light as he lifted it up to see why he was in pain. The shoulder of his uniform was stained a dark red, quickly forming into a larger, irregular circle. With a grimace, he laid back down, the effort taking much more than it should have. So this is what it felt like to die in battle.

John stared up at the clouded sky as the sound of gunshots decorated the air around him in its muted bursts. He could feel the strength leaving him slowly, in small waves, but leaving him nonetheless. As he laid there, waiting for death to take him away from this war ridden plain, he reflected back on his service in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

He had been a military doctor, so he hadn't been in the midst of much of the action, but had instead seen what consequences the bloody actions caused. Every day brought him new patients in which he either had to sew them up to stop the bleeding, or amputate a leg, or sometimes even, lull the patient into a state of calmness before they passed into death. John hated it the most when he'd have to assure a patient that everything would be alright when they were dying. He couldn't ever let them know they were dying. He'd sit by the side of their cot, and make their transition into death more peaceful. In the past couple of days, that action seemed to be repeated quite a lot. He realized that they were losing a lot of soldiers, but he knew that they would triumph. The good side always won.

His breath hitched, his vision becoming dotted for a second. Here it came. Death. As he sucked the hot air back into his lungs, he felt himself slowly start to lose consciousness. Soon the world around him around him went from gunfire and screams to darkness and silence.

* * *

Sherlock laid underneath the window sill, shaking. He wrapped his arms around his knees, trying to still himself. He tried to persuade himself that he hadn't overdosed, but realized that he could only lie to himself for so long, and that it could only do so much. He curled into a ball under the window sill, his heart doing erratic beats in his chest. He bit his lip as the pain hit his chest hard, making him have a hard time breathing.

He lay there on the floorboards, wondering why he had overdosed, and in his flat no less. He came up with a small smattering of reasons, but none that would justify trying to get high. Finally, he decided, ashamed, on the reason. It was because life had just become too boring for him. Day in and day out, Sherlock sat around, deducing everyone and everything. He was a consulting detective for the yard, and helped them solve cases that they couldn't grasp. However, every case that he helped them out with seemed to infuriate him. They treated him as if he weren't even human, and that the deductions that he made were out of this world. Whilst he appreciated the praise, he hated that no one actually understood him as a person. When he was struggling to get somewhere on a case, (which wasn't very often, but still happened on rare occasions), they just left him alone. No one encouraged him; no one offered to assist him. They treated him like a rare statue, putting him in his case, and then leaving him there to gather dust.

After thinking about that, Sherlock realized that the real reason why he had overdosed wasn't because he was bored, but that he was lonely. He never realized that he was lonely until that moment, but now he did. He never thought that he needed anyone in his life, but now he realized that all he wanted was a best friend; someone to be there for him; someone to help him.

Someone to save his life.

He felt himself become light as he allowed his eyelids to flutter close and pass into a world of blackness.

* * *

"John? John Watson?"

John had been limping his way through the park when he heard his name. He had no idea how he got there, but here he was nonetheless. The last thing that he remembered was being shot, but he shrugged it off as a bad dream. He looked for the owner of the voice, and saw a man smiling widely at him. Smiling back, he limped over to him.

"Do I know you?"

"Mike. Mike Stamford," said the man, sticking out his hand.

John looked down at the hand, trying to go through all of his memories to see if he could recall a Mike Stamford.

"We served together," said the man to further identify who he was, shaking his hand.

John ran through all the men that he had encountered in his time in the army, and realized that the name Mike Stamford _did _ring a bell after all. He had met him in the medic tent. He had been one of the people that he had treated. He was almost a hundred percent sure that he had died, but he must not have. He must have gotten him mixed up with someone else. There was no way that he was having a conversation with someone who had died. There was just absolutely no way.

"Ah, right. I remember you," said John, smiling at the joyful man.

Nope. Definitely not dead. Dead people couldn't be this happy. Unless they were happy because of a reunion...

"_Shut up, John," _he chided himself.

"How are you doing nowadays, John?" asked Mike.

"I'm hanging in there," said John, his smile vanishing slightly as he allowed himself to wander in his thoughts some.

"Have a place to live?"

"_There! Not dead! Dead people don't need a place to live!"_

"Well, I..." He thought for a second. Where was he living? All he remembered was showing up here. Ah, that's right. He was housed in a small apartment a little ways away from here. In his mind, his apartment was not only small, but lonely. He found himself in need of a friend. He had never felt that need before, but he felt it now. "...I have means of getting by, but I've been looking for a better place to live."

"I think I have someone in mind for you!" said Mike with a big grin. "That is, if you don't mind sharing a flat."

"No, I don't mind sharing at all."

"Great, then follow me. I'll take you to him."

John nodded, limping behind Mike as he led him through downtown London, to a hospital, St. Bart's to be exact. As they neared it, John slowed down and tilted his head up to look at the building that towered in front of him. This building was actually where he had learned how to becoming an army doctor before being called out to join the forces in the field. This building held many fond memories for here. He smiled a bit as he limped through the door, following Mike into an elevator and up to the top floor.

When they arrived at the top floor, everything seemed much whiter, much more sterile up here. John remembered that he had thought the same thing the first time he had been to St. Bart's. This must be the part of the hospital where they did surgeries and examinations. John followed Mike through a door as he pushed it open, standing aside.

John slowly limped into the room and looked to see that the only occupant of the room was a man, who was currently bent over a microscope, examining something. He had twirled black hair that framed his porcelain white face. His slender fingers were wrapped around the knobs on either side of the microscope, his ocean blue eyes looking at the slide in front of him.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" were the first words that were spoken to him; the man's voice deep and rumbling.

"Excuse me?"

John was shocked, staring at the man in front of him. He had just gotten into the room, and yet, the man sensed that he was from the army.

When no answer proceeded his question, the man looked up, turning his gaze to stare at the man with the short dirty blond hair in front of him. He tilted his head to the side slightly as he examined John.

"Well, which is it?"

"Afghanistan, but how did you..."

An amused smile spread across the man's face as he stood up from the stool he had been perched on. John could see that the man in front of him was tall, at least a good couple inches taller than himself. The man walked toward him, his stride smooth and graceful, his footfalls barely being able to be heard on the tile.

"I deduced that you were a solider since you obviously have a limp, but didn't ask for a chair. You'd prefer standing at attention, much like a soldier would do. You also have a tan on your wrist which suggests time outdoors in the sun. Since London is not known for its sunny nature, I am left to assume that you have been somewhere where the sun tends to shine a lot. Since I also deduced that you are a soldier, there are only two places that you could have been. It could either be Afghanistan or Iraq, which is what prompted me to ask you that question in the first place."

A look of pure amazement passed across John's face. His jaw dropped open a little; a small smirk passing over the man's face. Mike stood off to the side, chuckling slightly.

"He does that. Don't mind him."

The man turned to look at Mike, rolling his eyes slightly.

"Well, no one else cares to notice the details." The man turned his attention back to John. "So, are you interested in sharing a flat? I have one in mind."

"Whoa, whoa, wait. How did you..."

The man nodded his head toward Mike.

"I told him that I was looking for a flat mate, and here he shows up with a man that I have never met before who clearly just got back from the war, and who is no doubt looking for a place to live. Am I right?"

"Yes, you are..." said John, once again amazed.

The man looked at his watch, sighing.

"I have somewhere to be. I will meet you later no doubt."

The man started to walk toward the door, opening it up.

"Wait, I don't even know your name, let alone where I'm meeting you."

The man paused in his light footed steps, turning to look at John.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and meet me at 221B Baker Street tomorrow at noon."

Sherlock flashed John a quick smile before exiting the vicinity, walking out the doors. John watched Sherlock disappear, staring after him in shock. Who was that man? He had seemed so quick-witted, so alert, so alive...

"So, what do you think?" asked Mike, walking back over to John.

John looked back at Mike, finally being able to turn his attention away from the now still doors.

"I think that I just found a flat mate."


End file.
